Sixteen Sequentially Unsatisfying Years

Sunday, two-thousand and twenty,

Though, Always setting on the twelfth.

Sadness sweeps over sleep

Uneasy shudders shatter

Unextinguished embers.

And He’s been fucking gone

for so fucking long—

My Father.

A Not-So-Sweet, Sixteen

Years of grief, disbelief

And now… She’s fucking gone.

My Mother.

I’m smothered by

Seriousness, mixed with Sauvignon.

Soundly sinking

Into the storms.

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